JEROME was as morose as ever in his general character; but he had
somewhat softened towards Gerard. All the time he was in England he had
missed him more than he thought possible, and since then had often
wondered what had become of him. What he heard in Gouda raised his
feeble brother in his good opinion: above all that he had withstood the
Pope and the Minorites on "the infernal heresy of the immaculate
conception," as he called it. But when one of his young monks told him
with tears in his eyes the cause of Gerard's illness, all his contempt
revived. "Dying for a woman?"
He determined to avert this scandal: he visited Clement twice a day in
his cell, and tried all his old influence and all his eloquence to
induce him to shake off this unspiritual despondency, and not rob the
Church of his piety and his eloquence at so critical a period.
Gerard heard him, approved his reasoning, admired his strength,
confessed his own weakness, and continued visibly to wear away to the
land of the leal. One day Jerome told him he had heard his story, and
heard it with pride. "But now," said he, "you spoil it all, Clement:
for this is the triumph of earthly passion. Better have yielded to it,
and repented, than resist it while she lived, and succumb under it now
body and soul."
"Dear Jerome," said Clement, so sweetly as to rob his remonstrance of
the tone of remonstrance, "here, I think, you do me some injustice.
Passion there is none: but a deep affection, for which I will not blush
here, since I shall not blush for it in Heaven. Bethink thee, Jerome;
the poor dog that dies of grief on his master's grave, is he guilty of
passion? Neither am I. Passion had saved my life, and lost my soul. She
was my good angel: she sustained me in my duty and charity; her face
encouraged me in the pulpit: her lips soothed me under ingratitude. She
intertwined herself with all that was good in my life: and after leaning
on her so long, I could not go on alone. And, dear Jerome, believe me I
am no rebel against Heaven. It is God's will to release me. When they
threw the earth upon her poor coffin, something snapped within my bosom
here that mended may not be. I heard it and I felt it. And from that
time, Jerome, no food that I put in my mouth had any savour. With my
eyes bandaged now I could not tell thee which was bread, and which was
flesh, by eating of it."
"Holy saints!"
"And again, from that same hour my deep dejection left me, and I smiled
again. I often smile--why? I read it thus: He in whose hands are the
issues of life and death gave me that minute the great summons; 'twas
some cord of life snapped in me. He is very pitiful. I should have lived
unhappy; but He said 'No; enough is done, enough is suffered; poor,
feeble, loving servant, thy shortcomings are forgiven, thy sorrows touch
thine end; come thou to thy rest!' I come, Lord, I come."
Jerome groaned. "The Church had ever her holy but feeble servants," he
said. "Now would I give ten years of my life to save thine. But I see it
may not be. Die in peace."
* * * * *
And so it was that in a few days more Gerard lay a dying in a frame of
mind so holy and happy, that more than one aged saint was there to
garner his dying words. In the evening he had seen Giles, and begged him
not to let poor Jack starve: and to see that little Gerard's trustees
did their duty, and to kiss his parents for him, and to send Denys to
his friends in Burgundy: "Poor thing, he will feel so strange here
without his comrade." And after that he had an interview with Jerome
alone. What passed between them was never distinctly known; but it must
have been something remarkable; for Jerome went from the door with his
hands crossed on his breast, his high head lowered, and sighing as he
went.
The two monks, that watched with him till matins, related that all
through the night he broke out from time to time in pious exclamations,
and praises, and thanksgivings: only once they said he wandered, and
thought he saw her walking in green meadows with other spirits clad in
white, and beckoning him; and they all smiled and beckoned him. And both
these monks said (but it might have been fancy) that just before dawn
there came three light taps against the wall, one after another, very
slow; and the dying man heard them, and said "I come, love, I come."
This much is certain, that Gerard did utter these words, and prepare for
his departure, having uttered them. He sent for all the monks who at
that hour were keeping vigil. They came, and hovered like gentle spirits
round him with holy words. Some prayed in silence for him with their
faces touching the ground, others tenderly supported his head. But when
one of them said something about his life of self-denial and charity, he
stopped him, and addressing them all said, "My dear brethren, take note
that he, who here dies so happy, holds not these newfangled doctrines of
man's merit. Oh, what a miserable hour were this to me an if I did! Nay,
but I hold with the Apostles, and their pupils in the Church, the
ancient fathers, that 'we are justified, not by our own wisdom, or
piety, or the works we have done in holiness of heart, but by
faith.'"[N]
Then there was a silence, and the monks looked at one another
significantly.
"Please you sweep the floor," said the dying Christian in a voice to
which all its clearness and force seemed supernaturally restored.
They instantly obeyed, not without a sentiment of awe and curiosity.
"Make me a great cross with wood ashes."
They strewed the ashes in form of a great cross upon the floor.
"Now lay me down on it: for so will I die."
And they took him gently from his bed, and laid him on the cross of wood
ashes.
"Shall we spread out thine arms, dear brother?"
"Now God forbid! Am I worthy of that?"
* * * * *
He lay silent, but with his eyes raised in ecstasy.
Presently he spoke half to them, half to himself. "Oh," he said with a
subdued but concentrated rapture, "I feel it buoyant. It lifts me
floating in the sky whence my merits had sunk me like lead."
* * * * *
Day broke; and displayed his face cast upward in silent rapture, and his
hands together; like Margaret's.
And just about the hour she died he spoke his last word in this world.
"Jesu!"
And even with that word--he fell asleep.
* * * * *
They laid him out for his last resting-place.
Under his linen they found a horse-hair shirt. "Ah!" cried the young
monks, "behold a saint!"
Under the hair cloth they found a long thick tress of auburn hair.
They started, and were horrified; and a babel of voices arose, some
condemning, some excusing.
In the midst of which Jerome came in, and, hearing the dispute, turned
to an ardent young monk called Basil, who was crying scandal the
loudest. "Basil," said he, "is she alive or dead that owned this hair?"
"How may I know, father?"
"Then for aught you know it may be the relic of a saint?"
"Certes it may be," said Basil sceptically.
"You have then broken our rule, which saith 'Put ill construction on no
act done by a brother which can be construed innocently.' Who are you to
judge such a man as this was? go to your cell, and stir not out for a
week by way of penance."
He then carried off the lock of hair.
[Illustration: THE DEATH OF GERARD]
And when the coffin was to be closed, he cleared the cell: and put the
tress upon the dead man's bosom. "There, Clement," said he to the dead
face. And set himself a penance for doing it; and nailed the coffin up
himself.
The next day Gerard was buried in Gouda churchyard. The monks followed
him in procession from the convent. Jerome, who was evidently carrying
out the wishes of the deceased, read the service. The grave was a deep
one, and at the bottom of it was a lead coffin. Poor Gerard's, light as
a feather (so wasted was he), was lowered, and placed by the side of it.
After the service Jerome said a few words to the crowd of parishioners
that had come to take the last look at their best friend. When he spoke
of the virtues of the departed, loud wailing and weeping burst forth,
and tears fell upon the coffin like rain.
The monks went home. Jerome collected them in the refectory and spoke to
them thus: "We have this day laid a saint in the earth. The convent will
keep his trentals, but will feast, not fast; for our good brother is
freed from the burden of the flesh; his labours are over, and he has
entered into his joyful rest. I alone shall fast, and do penance: for to
my shame I say it, I was unjust to him, and knew not his worth, till it
was too late. And you, young monks, be not curious to inquire whether a
lock he bore on his bosom was a token of pure affection, or the relic of
a saint; but remember the heart he wore beneath: most of all, fix your
eyes upon his life and conversation; and follow them an ye may: for he
was a holy man."
* * * * *
Thus after life's fitful fever these true lovers were at peace. The
grave, kinder to them than the Church, united them for ever: and now a
man of another age and nation, touched with their fate, has laboured to
build their tombstone, and rescue them from long and unmerited oblivion.
He asks for them your sympathy, but not your pity.
No, put this story to a wholesome use.
Fiction must often give false views of life and death. Here as it
happens, curbed by history, she gives you true ones. Let the barrier,
that kept these true lovers apart, prepare you for this, that here on
earth there will nearly always be some obstacle or other to your perfect
happiness; to their early death apply your Reason and your Faith, by way
of exercise and preparation. For if you cannot bear to be told that
these died young, who, had they lived a hundred years, would still be
dead, how shall you bear to see the gentle, the loving, and the true,
glide from your own bosom to the grave, and fly from your house to
heaven?
Yet this is in store for you. In every age the Master of life and death,
who is kinder as well as wiser than we are, has transplanted to heaven,
young, earth's sweetest flowers.
I ask your sympathy then for their rare constancy, and pure affection,
and then cruel separation by a vile heresy[O] in the bosom of the
Church; but not your pity for their early, but happy end.
Beati sunt qui in Domino moriuntur.
FOOTNOTES:
[N] He was citing from Clement of Rome--
[Greek: 'Ou di' heautôn dikaioumetha oude dia tês hêmeteras sophias, ê
eusebeias, ê ergôn hôn kateirgasametha en hosiotêti kardias, alla dia
tês pisteôs.'----_Epist. ad Corinth._, i. 32.]
[O] Celibacy of the Clergy, an invention truly fiendish.